Benevolence
by Auchen
Summary: Neither of them remember, but they met once before in a dark bar when Jim stopped the beating of an unknown, shivering man.


He was on his third glass of beer when he heard the unmistakable sound of a human body thumping to the floor. Around him, a few other bar patrons glanced toward the source of the sound, but for the most part just shrugged and downed another gulp. Jim sighed and closed his eyes. It wasn't his problem. He wasn't going to see what was happening.

Then there was a yelp and the sound of a hand smacking skin. And again. Jim glanced to the bartender, who was simply cleaning out a glass, willfully deaf and blind to the problem going on in the corner of the room. The bartender's lip was twisted in concentration as he scrubbed at a stubborn stain.

_Slap._

Then a cracking sound, followed by raucous laughter. Jim pressed a hand to his head and slammed his glass down against the bar. Against his better judgment he rose from his seat and walked to the dim corner of the room where a light bulb buzzed and sputtered. There was a ring of three men, and through the gaps in their bodies, he could see a crumpled, cringing form.

One of the assailants raised a fist to take another swing, but Jim grabbed it before he could, tightening his hand around the man's fist. "I think you're done," Jim said.

The man's fist shook and went a bit limp. The two other brawlers glanced at each other, and then held Jim's eyes. One of them waved a hand, with a snort and a shake of his head. "Whatever, it's not worth it," he said.

The man whose fist Jim still held yanked his hand away, wiping his palm against grease stained pants. He walked away with the others, but not before bumping Jim with his shoulder. Jim took a step closer to the man who lay on the ground.

He couldn't clearly make out the man's features in the gloomy light, but he saw that the man was still quivering on the ground, a smear of blood beneath his nose and dripping from his chin. He was pathetic and cowering, and something about him made Jim a mixture of pity and revulsion.

"Th-Thank you," the man sputtered out.

His voice was afraid and whining. Jim winced, but still stuck his hand out to help the man up. The man's eyes grew wide, as if he couldn't believe someone would extend such an offer in this pit of a bar. After another moment of hesitation, the man took his hand and stumbled to his feet like an unsure colt. The man's palm was cold and clammy. Once he stood, he swayed for a moment, and then gained his bearings.

The man sniffed and rubbed his nose, a black smudge of blood coming away on the side of his hand. The man at least at the grace to look embarrassed and glance away. Jim dug around in his pocket and handed him a tissue. The man took it, still hesitant eyes flicking across Jim's face for signs of hostility, mouth forming an 'o' of surprise and uncertainty.

Jim could just walk away now; he had done his civic duty. But he wasn't quite sober enough to make that call. He sighed and jerked his head towards the bar. "You look like you could use a drink."

The man was pinching the tissue to his nose, and he raised his eyebrows. He glanced towards the door, then back to Jim. "…All right."

Jim lead him back to the bar and watched as the man slumped into a seat next to him, back hunched as he stared forward. Jim waved to the bartender and slid some money over.

"A scotch for him," Jim said, pointing at the man.

The bartender nodded, and a moment later, slid a glass of amber liquid towards the man. He immediately wrapped his thin fingers around the glass, the scotch trembling as his hand shook with the aftershocks of his beat down. He knocked it back, seemingly eager to burn away the lingering shame he felt. Jim knew that feeling.

"Thank you," the man said again, voice honey smooth.

Jim didn't like the way he said it. It was cloying and seemed almost affected. But he just gave a weak smile. "Don't worry about it."

Jim only sat for a few more minutes, contemplating into his half-finished glass of beer. He didn't ask the man's name, because that almost seemed to imply they might see each other again, and that wasn't something Jim wanted. When he looked at the man he wanted to glance away with some strange feeling of distaste flaring inside of him. After a few more minutes he stood to leave without a word to the man.

As he walked to the door, one of the brawlers grabbed his shoulder. Jim tensed, anticipating retribution for interfering with their fun, but thug didn't. He just stared at Jim for a moment with glassy eyes before speaking.

"He started it, y'know," the thug said, tongue thick and heavy with alcohol.

Jim drew his brows together. "Why?"

"We insulted 'im, and he tried to attack us." The thug wheezed a laugh. "Guy's a loose cannon. Dumb thing you did, back there. Guy don't need sympathy, guy needs a shrink."

And then the thug walked away, shooting Jim one last glance that seemed to say "you sucker". Jim stared at the door in front of him, eyes fixed on the ridges of the frosted glass. He hadn't thought twice about stopping the pummeling of that sniveling, cowering man. It seemed the logical thing to do, he hadn't thought any further into it than that. Jim shook his head.

When would he learn?

Maybe never.


End file.
